


116

by imaginentertain



Category: Days of Our Lives
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginentertain/pseuds/imaginentertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WilSon wedding fluff, using Sonnet 116 as inspiration in a second person narrative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	116

There is a moment during the ceremony when he stumbles over his words. You think it's cute, adorable even. You want this just as much as he does but you know he's wanted it for longer. Wanted you for longer. That very thought fills you through to your toes and you feel that you're going to just vibrate your way through the day. You're a mass of nerves and excitement and energy, all on not enough sleep.

You missed him last night.

But he starts and then stops, only managing to half-whisper your name, before he cuts himself short. For a moment you wonder if he's forgotten what it is he wants to say, but you know that's not it. When you agreed to write your own vows you both worked, independently, for weeks. And you've spent the last few weeks rehearsing them so much that it's a wonder you didn't slip into recital mode when you said _I never thought this would happen_ to your mom the other week.

(She gave you the best gift she ever could; she went out of town until just before the wedding so that you and your fiancé – almost husband – could finalise wedding plans in peace.)

So you know he's not stumbling because he doesn't know, and there are no visual signs that he's overcome with nerves. For a horrible second the thought in your toes goes cold and you can't help but default to _changed his mind_ and _not good enough_ and _you don't get to be happy_ but then he's collected himself and he's speaking again.

He tells you that doesn't know how to put into words how much he loves you, but that's OK because sometimes there are no words.

He tells you that his love for you has grown with you, changed with you, and no matter what tomorrow brings he knows the only certainty and constant in his life will be that he loves you.

He tells you that you are his North Star, that you are his fixed point. You see him through storms and troubles and all the dramas that your families bring.

(You hear a mock cry of indignation that can only have come from your mother. You don't care.)

He tells you that his love for you is not rooted in the now, it is not rooted in your bodies. It lives in your souls and he knows that 'until death parts us' will only be for the physical aspects of your love. That he cannot imagine his heart and soul not loving you even after all of that.

He doesn't understand how love works, he doesn't know why it has worked out this way. All he knows is that there is not a single part of you that he doesn't love with every part of himself. Love, he says, is a concept beyond what we can understand. But he understands it more with you.

And now you can't speak.

****

You're lying on the bed, not caring about the mess the sheets are in or the fact that you're missing a few pillows. (You'll find them later; one will be, for some reason neither of you will be able to place, on the other side of the room.) You're happy to just lie there, to feel those thoughts from earlier running through your body the way his touch had run over it in the hours before. You listen to the sound of the shower and you try, really hard, to honour your promise to not follow him in there.

He is mindful, rightfully so, of the fact that you'd not come out until you both looked like old men and there are far too many things that can go wrong when it comes to shower sex. You got away with the sprained-while-running cover story once, no one would believe it this time.

Even though it's bad form to break a promise so early in the marriage you can't help but get up and start towards the en suite because he's yours and you're his and when he's not here it's like you're not here and your toes are lonely. 

But you stop because you promised and because he makes a lousy patient and because you'd like to do other things on your wedding night than ice his ankle. The bed is warm and still smells of him and you and the 'us' that you are together. You want to bottle that smell.

You stop to grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and on the desk above it you see the grabbed souvenirs from the reception, including the guest book. You turn to the first page because it will give you something to do, something to stop you burying yourself in the scent of 'us' and having your husband (once a noun you never thought you'd use and now one you never want to be without) return to you wrapped up like a human burrito. Although the image of him unwrapping you is certainly one you'd like to try sometime.

On the top of the first page are your names and the date, two awful childhood pictures your mutual cousin had found somewhere and insisted on. You know these are there, you helped put them in place two days before. But there is more now. You smile as you read the 14 lines written in one corner, by Sonny's own hand, and you know why he changed what he was going to say.

(He'd whispered his original vows to you in those hours of 'us', pouring words of love and promise into your pores. And while you like it just fine you were glad that he said what he did.)

For those lines were written, and men do love. And when he emerges from the bathroom, towel loose and low around his hips and the soft curl of steam on water-kissed skin, you and your toes love him a little bit more.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
> Admit impediments. Love is not love  
> Which alters when it alteration finds,  
> Or bends with the remover to remove:  
> O no! it is an ever-fixed mark   
> That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
> It is the star to every wandering bark,  
> Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
> Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks   
> Within his bending sickle's compass come:   
> Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,   
> But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
>  If this be error and upon me proved,  
>  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


End file.
